It's a Wonderful Life
by buffyaddict
Summary: Sam deals with the aftermath of a hunt gone bad at Christmas. The Ghost of Christmas Alternate Future pays a visit, there's stockings full of angst and gift wrapped emo!sam and emo! dean for your enjoyment.
1. Chapter 1

Title:It's a Wonderful Life

Rating: R for talk of suicide and swears

This is my attempt at a Christmas fic with the boys. A story about a hunt gone wrong, a ghost, an alternate reality, lots of emo!sam and emo!dean. It's Christmas and the boys love each other. (NOT in a wincesty way.)

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, but I wish I did.

Warning: I was in a hurry and did not have this betaed.

Chapter 1

Sam wakes with the taste of smoke in his mouth and the smell of burnt wood clings to him like cobwebs. And that's after three showers.

Digital numbers glow 3:27 and Sam sighs. His eyes still burn, but he doesn't know if it's from the smoke or the tears.

He rolls over and looks at Dean. His brother is stretched out in the other bed, oblivious. Sam envies him.

All he had to do was pull the kid to safety.

Dean went to burn the bones and Sam went to get the kid.

Simple.

Only Sam had fucked it up. Big time.

The bones were burnt and the spirit was dead. But so was the fourteen year old. Not to mention the barn was nothing more than a smoldering ruin.

_Just like the kid._

Sam had been running for the door, the kid slung over his shoulder, when the floor buckled and they both went flying.

Sam fell clear of the fire.

The kid didn't.

Sam's stomach clenches. He should have held on to the kid tighter.

Should have anticipated the heat would buckle the floor boards.

Dean hadn't even acted pissed. He'd just patted Sam on the back and said _I know you did your best. We can't save everyone, Sammy._

He doesn't think the kid's parents would be that forgiving if they knew what really happened.

Sam finally gives up on sleep and creeps out of bed. He slips into the bathroom and shuts the door quietly. He turns the shower on and tries to wash the smell of death away.

Sam sits hunched in the booth. His shoulders are slumped, his neck bent. He looks everywhere but at Dean.

Dean frowns and stabs his fork at a pancake. "Dude," he sighs. "Come _on_." Which in Dean speak means: _How many times do I have to say it isn't your fault? _

Impossibly, Sam hunches further into himself. "Not hungry," he mumbles. And, as an afterthought, he adds hoarsely: "I'm sorry."

Dean lets the fork drop to the plate with a clank. The waitress glances over, but Dean ignores her. He leans forward, head down and hisses, "Quit it, Sam. You don't need another guilt trip, ok? It was an accident. It's not like the spirit was going to be all accommodating, right?"

Sam flicks a glance at Dean's face and his eyes shine with pain. His lips pull into a broken smile. "If the guilt fits . . ."

Dean shakes his head. "Sam, I am not gonna sit here and listen to you beat yourself up about this. Quit being such a drama queen." He stares hard at Sam. "Do you hear me?"

Sam's smile tightens. "I hear you."

"Good."

----------------------------

Back at the motel, they pack their stuff in less than five minutes. It doesn't take long when they barely unpack to begin with.

On the way to the car Dean tosses a newspaper to Sam. "Why don't you find us our next hunt."

Sam catches the newspaper and gives a stiff nod.

They drive in silence for the first fifteen miles.

Dean shifts uncomfortably and tries to draw Sam into a conversation.

He glances at the open newspaper in Sam's lap. "Find anything?"

Sam is staring at the newspaper, but his eyes aren't moving. Dean is pretty sure Sam has no idea what he's looking at.

Sam blinks and shrugs. "Not yet."

Dean nods his head toward the box of tapes on the floor. "Want to pick out some music?"

Despite the depression Sam is mired in, he recognizes Dean is really trying. Especially since it's his job as passenger to _keep his cakehole shut_ regarding music preferences.

Sam manages a strained smile. "You can pick." He aims a look above Dean's head. "Thanks, though."

Dean notes Sam's pale complexion and the haunted look in his eyes. He sighs and bites the inside of his cheek. "Look, Sam. If you want to talk about–"

"I'm fine," Sam says, too quickly. His hand finds the radio. He turns it on.

Dean shoots Sam a dubious look. "Really? Because–"

Sam pulls the _turn the radio up too loud to talk _trick and the strains of _Electric Eye _bury whatever Dean is going to say.

Sam thinks all the way to Medford. He tries _not_ to think but it never works. He leans his head against the window once, in a vain effort to doze. When he closes his eyes he sees the boy burning, hears the screams. When he inhales, all he can smell is death. It's in his hair. In his pores.

He is the reason the kid died.

And his mom.

Jessica.

Dad.

He'd managed to wipe out his entire family except for Dean.

It's just a matter of time until he does something to get Dean killed.

He was even responsible for Max's death. If he'd just said the right thing. If he'd had a little more time. . .

He glances at Dean out of the corner of his eye. Thankfully, he's given up on trying to talk and is singing along to the radio.

Tears leak out of Sam's eyes and he turns, unseeing, to the window. He draws a sleeve roughly over his face. He has no right to cry. He doesn't deserve to cry.

He doesn't deserve anything.

------------------------

A few snowflakes drift past the Impala's windshield.

"I'm pulling off at the next exit," Dean announces. "We gotta get some gas." He stifles a yawn. "And some coffee."

"I can drive if you want," Sam says.

Dean's not sure if he trusts Sammy with the Impala in his current condition. "Maybe." He shrugs, noncommittal.

Sam pumps the gas and Dean goes in to pay.

Sam leans against the car watching Dean through the window. He's flirting with the girl behind the counter. The girl laughs at something he's said and twirls a lock of blond hair around a finger. Dean adjusts his charm to _high_ and she laughs again.

Sam is freezing. He muscles tighten against the cold and he can't stop shivering. But he doesn't want to go into the convenience store and he refuses to get in the car. He doesn't deserve to be warm.

The snow is a little thicker now, fat flakes swirl like feathers. A fiber optic Christmas tree shimmers in the display window. A tinny rendition of _White Christmas_ blares out of the speakers. Sam snorts as the snow dampens his long hair. _Looks like Bing Crosby got his wish._

Dean and the girl are still dancing around each other when Dean abruptly turns to the window and looks out. He sees Sam leaning against the car and his eyebrows do a little jig of annoyance. He motions for Sam to come inside.

Sam shakes his head.

Dean scowls and moves away to get the coffee.

He comes out a few minutes later carrying two Styrofoam cups.

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean snarks. "Are you trying to be a popsicle, or what?"

"Or what," Sam says, taking the coffee. He sniffs at the container but all he smells is burnt hair. "What kind is it?"

"Some girly kind," Dean sniffs. "Toffee Dream Swirl with Cinnamin Chocolate Kisses, or some shit."

Sam smiles weakly. "Thanks. I think."

Dean notices the smile doesn't reach his brother's eyes. He grasps at straws and asks, "You wanna drive?"

"Sure."

Dean throws the keys and Sam catches them with one hand. He slides behind the wheel, puts the coffee between his legs.

Sam pulls onto the highway while Dean talks about the girl at the gas station. "I told her we like to check out urban legends and stuff. I asked her about Crystal River and she said she hasn't heard anything weird about it."

Sam doesn't answer.

"She did say that a guy drowned the night before last."

Now Sam looks at Dean. "That's the fourth one in the space of six months."

"And they're all in the same quarter mile of the park. Tell me that's not weird."

A smile ghosts over Sam's face. "That's not weird."

Dean rolls his eyes.

He sips his coffee (no cream, three sugars) and squints through the snow. "This weather sucks."

The radio station turns to static so Dean fiddles with the dial. They have a choice between Christmas music and new age instrumental. Dean looks disgusted. "Great. Crap and more crap." He switches the radio off.

"So much for your Christmas spirit."

"You're not exactly Father Christmas yourself," Dean observes.

Sam just shrugs. He doesn't want to argue. And he can't bring himself to care about the holiday.

Or much of anything, really.

All he wants is to find a way to keep Dean safe.

He needs a way to protect Dean.

From himself.

"What?" Dean demands.

Sam turns toward Dean but keeps his eyes on the road. "What _what?"_

"I dunno. You've got a look on your face like you just ate a spider. And it's legs are twitching all the way down your throat."

Sam's nose wrinkles. "Nice image."

"Then spill."

Sam cuts a half moon shape in the side of his cup with a fingernail. "Nothing."

"Nothing, my ass," Dean gripes.

"It's just . . .well . . ." He takes a deep breath. "Do you think I'm cursed?"

Dean stares at him, considering. "I guess. That could explain why you're freakishly tall."

"I'm serious," Sam says, jaw clenching.

"So am I. I don't think you're cursed with anything but giant genes and slightly below average looks."

Sam thinks about The Demon and death and wonders.

-----------------------------------

They pass a string of motels that blink on and off like Christmas lights. They pass snow covered manger scenes.

They pass the Medford Falls Park and there, partially frozen is the Crystal River. They both turn and look, but that's all. They'll check in to a motel first and come back in the morning.

They find a passable motel five blocks from the park. It's called The Sleep Inn and fake pine boughs decorate the check-in desk. Sam waits in the car while Dean goes in to pay. He just wants to get into the room and shower. All of his clothes stink of smoke. He doesn't know how Dean can stand to be in the car with him.

Dean comes back out and wraps on the window. Sam follows Dean to their room carrying their duffel bags. "I need to take a shower," Sam says, the minute he's in the room.

"Dude, is there something I should know about? Are you part fish?" His eyebrows do a sly dance. "Or maybe I don't want to know what you're doing, eh, Sam?"

Sam's answer is the _click_ of the lock on the bathroom door.

Inside the bathroom Sam strips and tosses his jeans, t-shirt and hoodie on the floor. He turns the water to hot and steps into the shower. He crouches there, letting the water hit him. If he could just get rid of the smell.

Maybe he's imagining it. Maybe he doesn't really smell like smoke and burnt flesh. Maybe it's all in his head. He puts his arms in front of his face and inhales. No. It's real, it's there. He smells like death and--

_the kid is screaming, his voice spiraling up with the flames_

_Jessica looks down at him, her mouth a shocked "o" and then _why, Sam?_ and her blood is on his _face _and the fire rolls out in waves and she's burning, the whole room's burning and Sam screams and she's dying right _there, _but he can't reach her and the smell, the smell is--_

"Sam?" Dean's voice punches through the door. "You okay in there?"

The sound of Dean's voice pulls Sam out of the memory. The water is scalding but he's shivering. He leans his head against the wall, trying to stop the sounds coming out of his mouth.

He's crying.

On his knees.

In the shower.

His hands are clenched and the crappy little bar of soap is squished beneath his fingers. Little flecks of soap swirl around and down the drain. He wishes he could join them.

Now Dean pounds on the door. "Sam!"

Sam manages to choke out a reply. "What?"

There's a moment of silence and then, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Sam lies. "I'll be out in a minute."

Dean doesn't sound convinced but he backs off. "Okay."

Sam bows his head and listens to the water pound against the tiles. He needs something stronger to scour away the smell.

_And the memories._

Something like steel wool.

Or lye.

When the bathroom door opens an actual cloud of steam disperses into the room. Dean is cleaning weapons but he looks up when Sam exits the bathroom. He frowns. "Dude, that's my shirt."

Sam looks down at himself, then nods. "Oh. Yeah. I hope that's okay. All my clothes are dirty."

Dean eyeballs the dried coffee stain on the hem of the shirt Sam's wearing. "So are mine."

Sam stuffs his pre-shower clothes into his bag. "I'm going to go to laundry. Do you have stuff you want me to wash?"

"Yeah. That shirt you've got on, for starters."

"Okay," Sam mutters, not really listening. He grabs the dog-eared phonebook and flips to the yellow pages.

Dean sets the gun he was cleaning on the bed and wipes his hands on a rag. "Uh, Sam? It's the middle of the night. And it's snowing. And you're going to go do laundry?"

Sam's finger moves down a list of names. "Yeah." His forehead creases and he looks up at Dean. "We're on Wilson Street, right?" He spots the matchbook on the desk and checks the address. He nods, satisfied. "That's what I thought."

"Sam," Dean asks hesitantly, "are you sure you're okay?"

Sam runs a hand through his wet hair, an annoyed expression on his face. "_Dean_. We do laundry at night all the time. Why are you making a big deal about this?"

Dean tries to gauge Sam's expression, the set of shoulders, but he can't get a reading. "I just thought, before, when you were in the shower . . . I thought I heard you . . ."

Sam's eyes latch on to Dean's and the look says _whatever you think you heard? You didn't._

Dean sighs and backs down. He kicks his duffel bag toward Sam. "Never mind. Take my stuff too."

Sam nods and hoists Dean's bag. He moves to the door but Dean stops him with, "Sam?"

Sam waits at the door, his back to Dean. His knuckles are white on the doorknob. "What?"

"Bring back something to eat, okay?"

"Okay," Sam says. And is gone.

----------------------------------

Sam spends two hours at the Wash-n-Go. He washes all his clothes twice. He throws Dean's shirt in the wash and puts on a clean one. He pulls the warm clothes from the dryer, a little tentative. When he brings his hoodie to his face he smells fabric softener.

And smoke.

He sits on a hard plastic chair for a while and wonders what to do.

He doesn't want to go back to the motel yet. He doesn't want to explain to Dean he's going crazy and that he smells like death.

Sam gets in the Impala and thinks about going through a drive-through for Dean. The thought of food makes his stomach cramp.

In the end he decides he'll drive past the park again.

Just a quick look.

-----------------------------------

The park is deserted.

A moon peers through a veil of snow and the trees hunch their branches against the wind.

Sam's shoes leave faint tracks in the quilted grass. His shoes are completely inappropriate for winter and his toes have been numb for quite some time.

He keeps telling himself he should leave. He should come back in the morning with Dean and the EMF meter.

But Sam keeps walking, hands thrust into his pockets. The handle of his gun is cold against his back.

He stands at the edge of the river, looking. There's nothing unusual. Just black water rushing through the night. Fingers of ice cling to the river's edge.

He sighs, and his breath is a plume of white.

There's nothing here. The silence is deeper than the snow. His hair is wet and his ears are cold. But he doesn't mind.

He inhales deeply, exhales, and watches his breath puff away. It's so cold he can't smell anything but the cold.

No smoke.

He turns to walk back to the car when he sees her.

A solitary figure on one of the benches along the river. She's wearing a winter coat and her blond hair falls softly around her face.

Sam's breath catches in his throat. He feels the cold air pull into his chest, expand, and _freeze_. The pain of seeing Jess is shocking.

He's imagining things.

But now Jessica is walking toward him, hands outstretched.

He's dreaming.

But his chest hurts, tears mix with the snow on his face, and his ears feel _frozen_.

He stares, incredulous. "_Jess?_"

She smiles. "Sam." The sound of her voice is everything good in the world.

Her voice is the sound of happiness regained.

Her smile flickers and so does she. One minute she's _there_ and the next moment she's on the other side of him. She touches his arm with a cold hand. "Sam," she says, "I'm not Jessica."

Sam blinks. Her words shatter the hope in his chest. The pieces lodge there, sharp as knives.

Not Jessica's smile tilts toward sadness. "I've taken this appearance so you won't be...alarmed."

Sam's tear-filled eyes narrow slowly. He swallows with an audible _click_ and feels rage spark to life.

He pulls away from the apparition and his lip curls. "Get away from me," he growls, low and hoarse.

Not Jessica shakes her head. "I can't Sam. I've come for you."

Sam regards her through a haze of anger. "I don't care what you want. Just–just don't look like her."

Not Jessica looks down at herself. "You don't like it?" She is genuinely curious.

Sam twists away from her and concentrates on breathing.

He suddenly knows what he wants for Christmas.

A shotgun filled with rock salt.

"I take it you're responsible for the deaths of those people?"

"No, Sam. I show them the truth and they decide for themselves."

Sam's laughter is harsh. "You're telling me you don't give them a helpful push into the river?" He turns slightly, careful not to look at her. "Let me guess, you're one of those lonely, misunderstood spirits who likes to have company?"

"You're angry."

"_Angry_?" Sam's voice cracks. "I'm fucking furious! How dare you wear my girlfriend's face like a–a fucking Halloween costume." He stalks away from her. "If you thought I was going to listen to you because you look like Jess, you're not only dead, you're stupid."

She calls out to him, but he keeps walking, long legs carrying him away. He's going to go get a shotgun out of the trunk right _now_.

There's a flicker and she's standing in front of him.

Sam makes a startled noise and veers wildly to the left. He almost slips in the snow and throws an arm out to steady himself. "You bitch," he hisses. "Get away from me!"

"I can help you get to Jessica," she says into his hear. "_Your _Jessica."

Sam hesitates, heart pounding.

"I can help you stop the burning." Her voice is a whisper of bells.

"What burning?"

She steps back a little and looks him in the face. "The way you feel. The way you can't get the smell of smoke and death and pain off you. Death is seared onto your soul, Sam. Do you really want to carry that with you for the rest of your life?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Is this the part where I'm so thrilled to be with Jess again I go jump in the river?" He sneers. "Does this really work on people?" He walks around her, still intent on the car. "You talk people to death? Do they drown themselves just to get away from you?"

"Sam."

"Fuck off," he growls.

She flickers at him again and he wants to punch her–it–whatever it is in the face. "I told you to–"

"Look," she says, "and see the truth." The palm of her hand connects with his forehead. Her hand is cool marble against his skin.

Sam looks, but all he sees is darkness.

------------------------

Something whispers against his eyelashes.

_What the–_

"Come on, Sam."

He starts at the sound of Not Jessica's voice. So much for everything being a dream.

His eyes flicker open and he's on his back looking up into an army of snow. He does a mental inventory. He feels okay. He pushes himself to his feet with a grunt.

"What did you do to me?" he asks, more than a little suspicious.

"I allowed you to see the truth."

He gives her a look. "Now you're Mulder?"

Not Jessica looks at him.

Sam sighs. He tries again. "What truth?"

"The thing you've always wanted to know, Sam. What the world would be like if you had never been born."

Sam's eyes go wide. "_What?_"

"Let's go," she says and takes Sam's hand.

They're standing in the front yard of a house. Sam recognizes the big tree first and his mouth drops open in shock. He turns to Not Jessica. "We're in–"

"Lawrence," she finishes. "This was your home."

Sam's brow wrinkles. "Was?"

Not Jessica nods. "You were never born."

Sam scowls. "What are you, the Ghost of Christmas Past?"

The ghost offers a gentle smile and motions toward the house. "Go ahead. Take a look."

Then they're standing inside the living room. Sam stumbles at the sudden change and catches himself against a chair.

The room is filled with music and laughter.

There's a Christmas tree in the corner of the room. He can smell the pine needles and the faint odor of cinnamon.

There are people sitting around the tree.

Sam's throat constricts and his eyes well over with tears because right—in front of him--is Dad.

His dad is smiling (_smiling!)_, his arm around the woman next to him.

Mary Winchester.

His mom.

She's in her late forties and her shoulder length blond hair is tucked behind both ears.

Sam gasps for breath and sinks into the empty chair. Sam reaches a hand toward Mary. "Mom?"

Not Jessica puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. "She can't hear you, Sam. None of them can. You're not really here."

Sam ignores her and gets down on his knees in front of his mother. He just wants to look at her. To see her alive. He wants to feel her arms around him again. He smiles through the tears and says, "Hey Mom. It's good to see you."

"Get away from her, dude!" Dean's voice calls and Sam spins toward his brother. But Dean's not looking at him.

He's looking at the toddler who's crawled up the arm of the couch. The little boy balances precariously, trying to place a bow on top of Mary's head.

"Gamma," the little boy says with a dimpled grin.

Mary reaches out and captures the little boy, tickling his belly and kissing his neck. "What do you think you're doing, kiddo?" She plants a loud, wet kiss on his cheek. "Grandma's got you!"

Sam can feel the love pressing in around him. His Dad, Mom and Dean. The beautiful woman Dean's sitting next to Dean. _They're holding hands. Dean is holding hands with a girl_.

Dean has a son. A beautiful little boy with light brown curls and blue eyes. Dean makes a face at the boy and the child laughs, delighted.

"You took this away from them, Sam," Not Jessica says quietly.

Sam can't believe this. It's an illusion. But it feels real. It smells real. He instinctively moves toward Dean. He wants his brother. All this love, and none of it for him, hurts. His voice is parchment. "Dean. Can you hear me? It's Sam. Sammy."

"Look at him, Sam. He's happy."

It's true. The shadows beneath Dean's eyes are gone. So are the worry lines on his forehead. This Dean's shoulders aren't stooped with the weight of the world. _The weight of a brother_.

Abruptly Sam stands. "Let's go."

Not Jessica glances up at Sam. "Are you sure?"

Sam stumbles toward the door. "Get me out of here!" His voice wavers. He doesn't know how to feel. Is this true? Is this really what his family would be like if he hadn't been born?

"It's not your fault," Not Jessica coos. "I know you didn't mean to kill them."

_His mom._

_His dad._

_His fault._

_Dean will be next._

It's too much. It hurts too much. This family died the moment he was born.

"Get me _out!_" he screams.

-----------------------

Sam feels the world shift and he's sitting on a chair. A kitchen chair. There's humming and the rattle and clink of dishes.

He opens his eyes.

Jessica is making cookies.

He's seen her do it a hundred times. She's wearing head phones, dancing from the refrigerator to the counter and back again.

There's nothing left of Sam's heart to break.

He just watches her, letting the tears come.

His throat is raw.

Not Jessica is with him. "Do you see?" she asks.

Sam nods.

If he hadn't been born Jessica would still be alive.

Vibrant, beautiful Jessica.

The woman he wanted to grow old with.

Footsteps in another room. Sam turns to see a man with dark hair walk up behind Jess and slide his arms around her waist. She leans into him and Sam tries to keep air going in and out of his lungs.

Jess turns and kisses his ear. "Hey babe," she smiles. "I'm making cookies for you."

Once, she said the same thing to Sam.

Sam turns his head. "Take me away," he whispers. "Please."


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for all the nice reviews! Here is the second and final chapter. Happy holidays!

Chapter 2

Now they're sitting in a Starbucks.

Sam is disoriented and ill. He feels hollow.

He leans against the table, his head in his hands. "Now what?" he grits out.

He can't imagine who is left.

What further proof is there that he is a _mistake_?

Not Jessica points to something over Sam's shoulder.

He turns.

A blond girl is sitting in an overstuffed chair by the window, sketching. Her hair is cut short. She's engrossed in her project. The chair next to her is filled with discarded art supplies and a few half finished sketches. Her work is good.

Sam knows the girl.

Her name is Meg Masters.

Sam laughs but the sound is wrong.

"So Meg gets to live too?" His voice hitches. "Who's next? Max?"

Not Jessica puts a cold hand over his. "Do you realize how many people your life affected, Sam?"

Sam bows his head. He doesn't want to listen anymore.

"Do you see how many people died because of you?" She asks softly.

Sam's head jerks up. Then down.

"You can't give these people back their lives, Sam." Not Jessica's voice is tinged with reproach.

Sam thoughts are all tangled up.

"But you can help Dean with the burden he carries."

Sam stares down at his hands.

"Do you really want to wait until you kill him?"

Sam's chest heaves. A sob tears from his throat.

"What kind of life can he really have, Sam? All he does is watch out for you."

Sam's hands shake. His body feels like someone else's.

Not Jessica leans close to him, her mouth near his ear. "Sam, the truth is you're already killing him. The only question is, do you want to do it fast? Or slow?"

Sam can barely get the words out. His lips are numb. "How...how can I fix it?"

-----------------

Sam lays on the riverbank trembling.

He's so cold.

He's so tired.

He wants this to be over.

His head rests on his outstretched arm. He can smell the smoke again. The scent of despair.

"You can wash the past away," Not Jessica tells him. "You can slip into the water and be free. Free of the pain." She smoothes the hair off Sam's face. Her voice is a whisper. A promise. "You can be with your Jessica again."

Part of Sam's brain says _this is how it happens. This is how they drown._

Another part says _I'm coming Jess._

He thinks about the family that never was. He wishes he could die more than once for all the pain he's caused.

He looks down into the water.

He can drift away like the soap in the shower.

He can be clean again.

He can have peace.

_i'm sorry dean for everything, i'm sorry mom and dad and jess and dean._

_sorry._

He's having trouble getting his limbs to do what he wants. The water is right _there_. All he has to do is roll in. The water will pull him down and cover him. Like a lover. _Like Jessica._

He stares up the stars. The glowing eyes of a thousand dead look down.

_Come home_.

It's getting hard to keep his eyes open.

"They're waiting for you," Not Jessica says.

He listens to the water. It asks him to come closer but he can't. It's too hard. His body is too heavy.

Not Jessica's eyes are kind. "There's another way, Sam."

He tries to figure out she means, and then remembers. He slides a trembling hand under his back and pulls out the gun. The gun is solid in his hand. The gun will take him home.

Mom and Dad are waiting. With Jess.

They can all be together.

And he'll wait for Dean.

He puts the gun to his head.

He sighs. It's the sound of _goodbye._

The shot echoes through the park.

--------------------------------

Dean is tired of pacing around the room.

Sam has been gone for six hours. Six _hours._

He made up excuses at first.

The Laundromat was busy. He fell asleep next to a dryer. The line at Burger King was really fucking long.

Some little old lady took one look at Sammy's puppy dog eyes and dragged him back to her house for Christmas tea and cookies.

Or maybe he got mugged.

Dean tried calling Sam's cell a hundred times. Okay, maybe not a hundred, but a _lot._ After the first three hours he settled on every half hour. He'd called a total of nine times. Nothing but voice mail every time.

Or—shit, why didn't he think of it sooner—maybe Sam had a vision.

Dean spent some time calling area hospitals, trying to see if anyone matching Sam's description had been admitted. No one had.

He flipped through TV channels for a while. He counted the number of lame ass holiday specials that were on.

Then he started thinking about The Demon and the whole _I have plans for you, Sammy_.

What if it was plan time?

Or what if Sam went to check out the site of the river suicides?

Dean considered the possibility. Sam had been acting pretty hinky lately. Secretive. Broody. Trouble sleeping. Okay, that pretty much described Sam all the time, but Dean knew his brother. Something was wrong.

----------------------

He's pissed off because Sam has his car.

He's even more pissed off when the car he _borrows_ has crap tires. He spends the next ten minutes sliding from one street to the next.

He's passed pissed and well on his way to _furious _when he sees the Impala wearing a blanket of snow in front of the park.

What the hell is Sam doing coming out here in the middle of the night by himself?

Dean grabs the shot gun from the passenger seat and slams the car door.

He's mumbling a litany of descriptive nicknames for Sam when he sees movement near the river.

He opens his mouth, primed to yell _What the fuck, Sam?_

But the combination of moon and snow provide enough light for Dean to see exactly what Sam is doing.

The words die on Dean's lips.

Anger flees, replaced by fear. A fear so strong it almost pushes Dean to his knees.

Sam is lying on the ground. The barrel of a gun glints in the moonlight.

Sam has a gun.

Pressed to his temple.

Sweet Jesus, _no_.

Then he sees the thing next to Sam. A pale apparition hunched next to him like a fucking vulture. Dean can sense how eager it is.

Dean raises the shot gun and aims. "Get the hell away from my brother," he hisses and pulls the trigger.

The shot echoes through the park.

-------------------------------

Sam's finger is on the trigger when the shot sounds. For a moment he thinks he pulled the trigger and he's dead.

_I didn't even feel anything,_ he thinks, amazed.

But then Not Jessica hisses and her face twists into something Not Even Remotely Jessica and she's gone in a cloud of vapor and salt.

Sam stares dumbly at the figure with the shotgun.

Dean?

Dean takes a tentative step closer. "Sammy. Put the gun down."

Sam closes his eyes. Dean's voice sounds funny. "I can't," he croaks. "I've got to save you."

"Save me," Dean repeats, struggling to understand. "From what?"

"From me."

Dean licks his lips. He doesn't know what to do. Out of all the things he imagined Sam doing, putting a gun to his head was not one of them.

"Sam, I hate to tell you, you're not that scary." Dean's voice cracks, letting the fear show. "I don't think I need to be saved from you."

"I can't keep doing this," Sam cries. "I don't want to kill you. It's too much. _I'm_ too much!"

Dean hears the sound of the safety click off and his stomach plummets. He fights the nausea and screams "Don't do it, Sam. Do NOT pull the trigger. Whatever you're feeling, whatever you're thinking—is wrong. The spirit did some kind of whammy on you. It pulled an Ellicot."

"It showed me the truth," Sam says softly.

Dean takes another careful step toward Sam. When he's close enough to see Sam's face he wants to run screaming. _oh shit sammy don't you fucking look like that. _Sam looks broken. Like a doll (_a huge giant doll) _some snot nosed kidthrew out a car window. Sam's face says he expected to be thrown out all along.

"What truth?" Dean asks, stalling.

"I saw you and Mom and Dad. You were all alive!"

"Sam," Dean says cautiously, "I _am_ alive."

"Mom and Dad were happy." Sam's voice breaks and he's having trouble talking through the tears. "You should have seen them. And you," Sam's laughter veers toward hysteria. "You were married! You had a kid."

"Dude, that should have been your first clue you were hallucinating." Dean tries to smile but he can't. Sam still has the gun and that's just wrong. That is unacceptable.

"And I saw Jess. The real Jess. She's still alive." Sam's body shakes with the strength of his sobs. "And I saw Meg. She was gonna be an artist, Dean."

Dean has no idea what Sam's talking about. He's just babbling and that's okay because if Sam's babbling that means he hasn't shot his head off yet.

"Hey Sam, can you do me a favor? Can you put the gun down?"

Sam mumbles something incoherent.

"Can you do that for me, little brother?" Dean's crying too. Because if Sam pulls that trigger he doesn't want to think about what will happen next. As far as he's concerned, without Sam there is no _next_.

"I can't!" Sam's voice is a wail. "I'm trying to save you, Dean! You've got to let me go."

"I don't really want to do that right now, Sam. Now drop the gun before I kick your ass."

"I'm sorry for everything, Dean. I'm sorry you didn't get to have the good life." The gun is pressed against Sam's temple.

Dean has never been this scared in his life. _Never. _The Demon could come with an army of hell hounds and it would be a cake walk compared to this.

He can't think what to do.

He's not just scared shitless, he's scared brainless.

_fuck. fuckety-fuck _fuck

"Wait!" Dean's voice is as thin and tight as wire. "I have to tell you something. Please Sam, just wait a goddamn second."

Sam doesn't lower the gun, but he doesn't pull the trigger either. "What?"

Dean thinks this is the best chance he's going to get. He takes a deep breath and says, "I love you, Sam."

Sam gets as far as "I lo—" before Dean pulls the trigger and blasts Sam with a load of rock salt.

The good news is Sam drops the gun.

The bad news is the blast pushes him right into the river.

-------------------------

Sam lies shivering under a pile of blankets. The cheap ass motel room heater is cranked to high. After the blankets have been stripped off Dean's bed he throws on the bathroom towels and a couple of sweatshirts. Finally Dean lies down behind Sam and puts his arms around him. He tells himself it's because he wants to keep Sam warm.

Not because he needs to feel the rise and fall of Sam's chest.

Sam hasn't said a word since Dean fished him out of the river. He spent some time picking rock salt out of Sam's face and neck. He cleaned up the abrasions as best he could until Sam turned his head away.

Dean wants to make a joke about getting an eye for an eye, a blast of rock salt for a blast of rock salt. He wants to joke away the pain in his brother's face and the memory of the gun. But Dean knows it won't help. So he puts his head on the pillow next to Sam and waits.

Sometime during the night Sam tries to climb out of the cocoon Dean built around him. Dean is awake instantly. "Sam?"

"Too hot," Sam mumbles.

Dean pulls the top layer of blankets off his brother. "Better?"

Sam lies back down. His reply is "Mmm."

Dean swallows. "Sam," he whispers, "don't you _ever_ do anything like that again."

But Sam is already asleep.

Dean wakes up around six. Between Sam's elbow in his side and the cramped space, he's finished with sleep. He gets out of bed and gets dressed. The clothes from the night before are still a sodden lump in the tub. He hangs them over the shower curtain rod and flicks on the bathroom fan.

He wants to go out for coffee but he's afraid to leave Sam alone.

He wavers between letting Sam sleep and getting to the bottom of what happened.

Worry makes him antsy so he putters around the room, making more noise than he needs to. It has the desired the effect and Sam shifts beneath the covers. "Dean?"

Dean sits across from Sam, elbows on his knees. "Hey."

Sam sits up and Dean can see the purple-red abrasions that pepper the side of his face. The dried blood that mats Sam's long hair.

Dean cringes inwardly. Sam looks horrible. _Nice job shooting your brother, asshole. _Sam had been under Ellicot's control at the asylum. What's his excuse? _How about wanting Sam to live?_

Sam brings a tentative hand to head and winces. "You shot me." Sleep has left his voice. He sounds dry and desolate.

Dean rises, goes into the bathroom, comes back. He holds a glass of water in one hand, aspirin in the other. "I know. And I'm sorry. But I'd do it again in a heartbeat if it keeps you from shooting yourself."

Sam swallows the pills. Sets the glass on the night stand. He pulls the blankets tighter, drawing into himself.

"So, ah, do you want to tell me how much of last night was because of the ghost and how much was because you've gone completely freakin' mental?"

Sam doesn't know how to answer. He hangs his head. His hair falls in his face and he slips back into the old comfort of hiding behind it. Wouldn't it be better for Dean if he were dead? Wasn't last night a perfect example of Sam being the burden (_albatross, dead weight)_ he doesn't want to be?

"Come on Sam," Dean prompts. "Talk to me." He tries a grin. "If you talk to me I won't even give you shit about hunting on your own like a dumbass."

Sam recognizes Dean is hiding too. Sam chooses hair and silence, Dean chooses jokes. Sam tries to play along. He conjures up a weak smile. "And that's _not_ giving me shit?"

Dean wears a look that says _don't tempt me, dude._ He shrugs.

Sam sighs and his shoulders slump. He is so tired. More in spirit than body. He could easily sleep another hundred years. Just because it's easier than talking. Easier than feeling the things he felt last night. Still feels.

"I–I don't know, Dean. I saw–I saw the future. I mean, a possible future," he amends. His hands twist in his lap. Sam opens his mouth to continue, stops, bites his lip.

Silence descends on the room.

"And?"

"And I saw Mom and Dad. And you. You all had this good life." Sam looks up and his eyes are too bright, his face tight. "It's the life you could have had if...if...I hadn't been born."

Dean stares at his brother. Works hard to keep his face neutral.

"If I hadn't been born, Jessica would still be alive." Now Sam's voice is a broken whisper. "Meg too. She never becomes a demon." The horror in his eyes is almost more than Dean can take. "The demon possessed her because of _me_, Dean." His hands have moved on from clasping and unclasping to flat out _wringing_.

Dean rubs his forehead and shakes his head. "Sam. That was a ghost talking. A _spirit_. Whatever it told you, whatever it showed you is crap. Worthless. _A lie._ Demons lie. People lie. You think ghosts have the market on truth? Let me tell you Sammy, they _don't_."

"I know," Sam breathes.

Dean gets to his feet, begins pacing. "If you know, then why were you going to blow your head off?"

Sam's hands finally fall still. He whispers something.

Dean pounces. "What?"

Sam takes a deep breath, and a lone tear tracks across the fresh scabs on his face.

"To save you!"

He won't admit to Dean but also: _because I couldn't save that kid. _

He can't save anyone.

Dean's been trying to play the cool brother, but this is too much. "Save me? From what?"

Sam's hands come back life, flailing. "From me! From everything I do wrong. Killing Mom, Jessica, Dad, the kid–"

Dean jumps in with: ""Don't even start about that kid. And you _know_ Mom is not your fault. Neither is Jessica. And dad? What the fuck?" Dean's eyes narrow. "I don't remember him trading his soul for _your_ life."

"But _I'm_ the one The Demon wants, Dean. If it weren't for me, Dad would have been safe. You wouldn't have been hurt and Dad never would have made that deal. I can't stand it, Dean. It's too much. There's all this _pressure_."

Sam scrubs at the tears on his face and a few of the cuts start bleeding. "And if this is how you feel? How _I_ make you feel? Then–then that's even worse. I don't want to be that person. I can't do that to you anymore." Sam scrambles off the bed, moving between the door and window like a trapped animal.

"I want you to be–to be free." He wraps his arm around himself, trying to hold himself together. "I tried to get away, to save you, before, at Stanford, but it didn't matter. I just got Jess killed, and in the end I came back and you still spend all your time taking care of me."

Sam continues talking but none of registers past _I tried to get away, to save you, before, at Stanford_. All this time Dean had thought Sam was a selfish little bastard and Sam was trying to _protect_ him? Dean takes a moment to comprehend this. Then he says, "I don't spend all my time taking care of you. Sometimes," he wiggles his eyebrows, "I liked to flirt with the ladies."

Sam flinches, as if Dean just slapped him. He advances on Dean, glowering. "You think this is _funny?_"

Dean raises his hands, placating. "No. But do you listen to yourself? How can you stand with the weight of the universe on your back? Is world hunger your fault too? And reality tv? Because if you did cause reality tv, I'm going to be at least a _little_ pissed."

Sam's face is blotchy with anger, his fists clench at his side. "Stop it," he says hoarsely.

"No. Because you keep bitching about how you're evil incarnate and the _oh the humanity_, but dude, all those things on your List of Guilt? You didn't kill anybody. How many times do I have to tell you? Mom and Jess weren't your fault. And neither was what happened last week. And you know what else? If I kick the bucket at some point, that won't be your fault either."

Sam's eyes squeeze shut and he takes several shuddering breaths. "But how do you _know_?"

"I _don't_ know, Sam. Do I think you're going to brain me with a crowbar while I'm sleeping? No. Do I think you're going to fuck up a hunt? No. Could you be with me when something bad goes down? It's possible. But only in your warped college brain could you equate _being in the vicinity_ with fault."

Sam looks up at the ceiling, blinking back tears. "No Dean. You're wrong. The Demon said—"

Dean's eyes go cold and his voice is hard. "Forget The Demon."

Sam turns to Dean, stunned. Shocked. _What?_

Dean rubs his jaw. "You know what? The Demon, the thing that killed Mom, that was Dad's fight. Yeah, it was my fight—our fight--too, but it was mostly Dad. And after Jess died it became more of your fight. And that's fine. But if going after The Demon has you that freaked out, or you're freaked out that The Demon is after you, then fuck it." Dean shrugs, makes a _smooth sailing_ gesture. "Let it go. I'll spend the rest of my life tracking wendigos and raw heads and won't look back."

Dean moves closer to his brother and looks him in the eyes. Sam's eyes are red and watering but he doesn't look away.

He's not going to be able to say this more than once, so he has to do it right.

He lets his mask of _tough big brother_ slip a few inches. "But I want to track wendigos and raw heads with _you_, Sam. I'll help you find The Demon if that's what you want. I'll walk away from it too.

"But I do _not_ look at you as a burden. You are my brother, and taking care of you has been the one good thing in my life. And I will not have you take that away from me without my permission. You do not make my decisions, Sam. You do not get to choose how I feel."

Dean is breathing hard, he can't stop the words coming out of his mouth. Sam has to realize that last night is something that can never happen again. _Never._

Sam wipes his face. He sinks onto the edge of his bed. "Dean, I didn't mean to—make your decisions."

"I don't care what a ghost tells you, Sam. I don't care what The Demon tells you. I care about how I feel and how you feel." He smiles faintly. "But mostly about how I feel. I feel like you annoy the crap out of me. You're moody and bitchy and have shit taste in music.

"But you're good hunter and you always have my back and there's nobody else I want to hang out with." He purses his lips, thinking. "Except maybe Angelina Jolie. I'd be cool with that too."

Sam manages a watery laugh.

Dean regards his brother. It's time to stop the water works and put the mask back. It's just how he functions. He doesn't show emotion. _Unless Sam's about to shoot his head off_. He'd rather spend his time hunting. Killing the things that need to be killed. And hanging with Sam.

"Do you get what I'm trying to tell you?"

Sam gives Dean a real smile and Dean feels about ten pounds lighter. "That you love me." And he loves Dean. More than anything. He's Sam's family.

Dean rolls his eyes.

"And that I…might not be ruining your life."

Dean tilts his head. "Good. _And?_"

"And that I don't need to, you know, die," he says in a rushed mumble, avoiding Dean's gaze. He's ashamed he ever considered leaving Dean.

"You know what we're going to do now?" Dean asks.

Sam sniffs. "What?"

"Kick some ghost ass."

But before ass kicking comes breakfast.

Dean scans the menu while Sam orders them coffee. Apparently, endless hours of emoting make a guy hungry.

For the first time in days Sam feels like he could eat something. The cloud of dread that's been following him is finally starting to dissipate. Because of Dean.

"Stop that, Sam. You're creeping me out."

"What?" Sam asks, all innocence.

"You keep grinning at me like I'm the prettiest girl you've ever seen."

Sam considers. "I wouldn't say you're the _prettiest _girl I've ever seen."

Dean doesn't have a chance to respond because the waitress comes over. She's wearing a headband with springy reindeer heads.

"Happy Holidays, boys," she says with a tilt of her head. The reindeer nod in agreement. "What'll it be?"

Sam eats like he's only seen food in pictures, and this is his first crack at the real thing.

Dean chuckles. "Slow down there, Sparky or you're gonna eat the plate."

Sam looks up, still chewing. "'s good." He sips his coffee. He stops chewing for a moment, a strange look on his face.

Dean feels a nervous twitch in his stomach. "What?"

"Do you smell that?" Sam asks.

Dean's brows knit. He sniffs delicately. "I took a shower, man," he says, slightly defensive.

Sam laughs. "Not you, man. It's just—the food smells good." His bangs fall across his eyes and he pushes them away, no longer hiding. Dimples appear in his wounded face and he looks excited. "Everything smells…good."

Dean frowns, not getting what Sammy is going on about. "Isn't food supposed to smell good?"

Sam's grin is contagious. "Yeah. It sure is."

After a brief stint at the library, they discover the first so-called victim of Crystal River wasn't exactly a victim. Her name was Karen Shaw and various newspaper accounts list her as _a self-proclaimed psychic_ and _interested in the occult_ and _despondent over a breakup_. "Apparently, she drowned herself in the Fox River and has been recruiting friends ever since."

"Thanks for keeping me off the list," Sam says softly. _I'll make it up to you. I won't leave you. I'll trust you to know what's best for you. And for me._

Dean flashes a crooked smile. "You're welcome." _They could offer me a solid gold life or Dad on a plate and I wouldn't trade it for the life I have with you, Sammy._

They walk out in the cold sunshine together. They stand on the library steps blowing on their hands.

"Merry Christmas, Dean," Sam smiles.

Dean snorts. "Merry Christ Moose to you too." They move toward the Impala, shoulder to shoulder. "I know how we can celebrate."

"How?"

"We could salt and burn some bones…roast a few chestnuts over an open fire."

"Sounds good to me." Sam watches his breath mist away.

They slam their car doors in unison and the Impala purrs down the road toward freedom.

end


End file.
